


ex nunc.

by soldier-dean (badaltin)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Ancient History, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dean as Death, Dean-Centric, Death, Eventual Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, F/M, Famine - Freeform, Fluff and Angst, Four Horsemen, Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse - Freeform, Gen, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Hurt Dean Winchester, Interspecies Romance, M/M, Pestilence, Romance, Sad with a Happy Ending, Team Free Will, Time Travel, Tragic Romance, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 12:48:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5091326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badaltin/pseuds/soldier-dean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death: one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. The beginning, and the end. Neutrality at its finest. And neither he nor God can remember anymore who was created first; neither care to.<br/>Death is a lonely creature by nature. His other Horsemen are there to help ease the weight of the cross he carries on his shoulder, but sometimes it isn’t enough.<br/>Sometimes, he thinks he’s beyond saving.<br/>OR:<br/>Where TFW (and Crowley) are the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse</p>
            </blockquote>





	ex nunc.

**Author's Note:**

> very VERY loosely based on this post: http://snakesandmischief.tumblr.com/post/73960499269/snakesandmischief-i-should-write-a-fanfic-where#notes
> 
> find me on tumblr [here](http://migrantdean.tumblr.com)
> 
> graphics for the story by the lovely ideare found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5767042)

Death stood in front of the hospital, his face void of any expression. He entered the building and flowed seamlessly through the moving bodies of the living, gliding past each room without a glance either way.

He rarely collected souls himself anymore; only those that he found truly interesting or beautiful were taken by his own hand.

The room he eventually came to was that of Mr. Murphy, an ancient, withered man in a coma. Tubes crisscrossed his frail body like a spider's web ensnaring a fly—Death thought it was an accurate comparison.

With a casual wave of his freckled hand, Death brought Murphy sputtering back to consciousness. Silencing the machines, he whisked away the tube from the man's throat and gave him the strength to speak.

Murphy was silent.

Death had that kind of impact on people. Hazard of occupation, he supposed.

The Horseman, in all his neutrality, did not will him into talking. He rested an ancient hand on the man's shoulder, almost in a consoling gesture. Something one might do after seeing an old friend again.

Murphy's soul gasped, and abandoned his body. The room brightened as he took on the form of his thirty-year-old self. He stared into the jade green eyes of the Dead, and regarded his reaper with familiarity.

The husky timbre of his voice carried across the void it occupied, silent to the ears of his human counterpart. "You haven't changed since last I saw you."

Death nodded.

"I shouldn't have expected any different, actually." Murphy added, delicate creases appearing around his eyes as he smiled. "You came for my friend. Barry."

"Clark Barnable. Yeah, I remember him. That was back in '45." No way in Hell would he forget the pair of them. Two psychic people in the same battalion—now that didn't happen every day. 

Death always did like the psychic ones.

Murphy looked up, his face hopeful. "Is there a chance I may say goodbye to my granddaughter?"

"I'm sorry," he told Murphy. The man's face turned remorseful, but soon it smoothed out into calm acceptance.

"You're done fighting—come. You can rest."

"Where are we going?"

"Again, I'm sorry. You'll find out soon enough, I promise." 

.

Neither Death nor God could remember who was first created, and neither really wanted to try. The Beginning was dark, cold, and best not spoken of, in Heaven or on Earth.

But other things came into being, and God Himself crafted for Death three companions: the other Horsemen. At their time of Creation, they were all gifted names—special ones that marked them as living beings, and to remind Him that they weren't just His instruments to be used for His righteous purposes. 

But Time, the elusive mistress that she is, had a way of eroding everything. Their names were used less and less, until they disappeared from thought and memory.

Death alone remembered them.

.

Standing on the outskirts of the great city of Tenochtitlan, Death and Famine were invisible to all but each other.

Although Famine was quite an intimidating figure in his corporeal form—a 6'4 giant with wide-set shoulders and deep eyes—he was the weakest of the Horseman. This was probably why Death took him under his metaphorical wing and inevitably led to their close, fraternal relationship.

By all rights, Famine shouldn't even have been near the Aztec Empire, let alone in the heart of it. He wasn't there for business. He came to talk.

"Sorry, but this's gotta be a short conversation," Death told Famine. "I have work to do here."

"It doesn't seem like you're working," Famine responded, looking around.

Death rolled his eyes, and shifted where he stood. He felt an exasperated fondness for his colleague seep into his words. "Okay, I'm waiting. And then I'll have work to do."

Famine contemplated his words for a long minute before he spoke in a lowered voice, "I'm concerned about the psychic people."

Death turned around to face the dark, restless lake surrounding the city. "Why?" he questioned, his face hidden from view. To be perfectly honest, Death was surprised it took him this long to grow concerned about the 'psychics'. They'd all known about their existence for centuries, but the other Horsemen weren't as interested in them as Death was.

"I've had small jobs in Europe and Asia recently, nothing major. I've been aware of the humans possessing powers, but it hasn't really concerned me much. Except for that child leader in France." Famine started, his brows furrowed in memory.

"Humans are afraid of what they don't understand." Death wiped a hand across his mouth.

"So they had to burn her at the stake?"

Death maintained his silence, and waited for Famine to continue.

"Well anyway, I was working in this village out in the middle of nowhere, and get this: one of the tribal leaders saw me."

"So?" Death shrugged a shoulder.

"So, he was close enough to be affected, and wasn't!"

Death huffed impatiently, and moved to look Famine in the eye. "Uh yeah, that's something psychic people can do!"

Famine glared murderously at Death. "I haven't walked amongst mortals like you have, Death! Sorry for not understanding them!"

Death's features pulled together in concentration. "What did you do—when the guy saw you?"

As Famine recounted the story, Death grew wary. It was obvious that the lesser being was frightened: of the possibility of his power lessening, or the power of the people, Death wasn't sure. But the story and the infliction of Famine's words made Death more and more suspicious.

"Well, what do you want?" Death asked after Famine had finished.

"I... I think we should deal with them. The psychic people."

"What, kill them? We are not getting involved!"

"Death, listen—"

"Trouble in paradise, boys?" A cool, accented voice interrupted. A black-clad man stood in the early morning, an unfriendly smirk upon his face.

"War," the other two said in unison.

"What're you doing here?" Famine growled, stepping back from the offending being.

"About to do my job, Famine. Unlike some of us, I take my work seriously." He replied conversationally, as if he weren't taunting the taller being.

"You were waiting for him?" Famine asked Death. "Why didn't you tell me? Something big's about to happen, and I'm left in the dark. Again."

"Settle down, Moose. You aren't needed at this time." Famine flinched at the words.

"You're early, War." Death stated. 

"Our man Cortez is due to arrive in a couple hours. I figured, why wait? I can start a little fun beforehand."

Death bristled, and glared at the other Horseman. "As long as I'm here, I forbid you from spreading your plague!"

War's temper flared, envy turning his tongue bitter. "Why? Afraid of a few more deaths? It's not like you lack the power to handle it. I would know."

"They die when it's their time. Only when it's their time." Death struggled to keep his composure.

"Why is it that you care so much about these apes?"

"Now you're starting to sound like an angel," Famine threw in.

"Death is in your nature," War continued, ignoring Famine. "These people are going to die anyway. You can't save them, Grim. That would be the exact antithesis to your existence, now wouldn't it?"

The look Death sent War's way made the surrounding tropical foliage wither and die. They stood off in a wide circle of tension and anger, each of the three Horsemen keeping their own secrets and hiding their true intentions. Eventually, War decided that the best course of action would be to leave, and he did. He settled on the opposite end of the island city, where his Dogs of War were waiting for their master's return.

Famine shook his head at war's gall, and disappeared into the brush with a thought.

Unbeknownst to Famine, War's words had hit a sore spot in Death. The oldest of the four had found it harder to do his job as the centuries waxed and waned. His studies of humanity and their customs only made it worse for him, as he sympathized with the 'apes' and loved them, in his own way. It was a difficult truth to face, and War spoke about it like small talk over afternoon tea.

That morning at Tenochtitlan formed the straw that finally broke the Horseman's back. The disquieting feeling, the loneliness and the sense of not belonging, it all settled after years of turmoil. Ever since the Roman Empire fell, Death had walked as if he were Atlas. But after that petty conversation with War, he felt the world on his shoulders grow in weight, his body sinking into despair with the heaviest of burdens anyone could possibly bear.

.

The terrible, terrible truth about War's work was that often Famine and Pestilence would follow him into the fray. They'd cause more casualties than War ever could among the knights fighting for their kings locked far, far away in their impregnable castles. 

The battlefield was littered with bodies, the damp earth a rosy color from the blood spilt. There was no discrimination in death among the fallen—they were all equals after life had seeped out of their corpses. Death and Pestilence lingered on the battleground after the particularly gruesome battle between warring kingdoms. They carefully stepped around the pale bodies of the dead, dancing amongst the weapons and shields and blood-spattered faces. It was all a nasty business, Death decided. A very nasty business indeed.

They made their way to a supply wagon, and rested on the wooden frame of the fragile contraption.

"Why must it be that those who cause the bloodshed never even lift their swords?" Pestilence wondered, his blue eyes daring Death to answer incorrectly. "Why must those free of causing the war die a most gruesome death?"

"That's not always true, Pestilence, and you know it. Remember that Alexander dude? He'd wear those huge, frilly—"

"Dea..." Death's pulse skipped a beat at the hesitation. "Death," Pestilence corrected himself, frowning slightly. "I'm being serious."

"I know, buddy." Death went to pat his friend on the shoulder, but caught himself. He looked down at his hands, still soaked in the dark blood that ran freely from the soldiers strewn across the plain. With a thought it was gone, but it still clung to his mind like a phantom limb. 

"I just..." Pestilence relaxed onto the wagon, the creaking of the wheels accompanying the aching of his heart. He looked up at Death, silently pleading for his attention. "Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell another soul?"

Death crouched down in front of Pestilence, feeling more comfortable doing so with him than any other creature in existence. Except maybe God, but He flew the coup a long time ago.

"I'm tired, Death," Pestilence began, his gravelly voice carrying out in all directions, though there were few people left to hear it. "I feel weary after all these millennia. And I understand that War takes pride in his work, and Famine does not mind it too badly, and you at least pretend to like yours, but..."

"Maybe you need to take a break for a little while," Death suggested.

"That's not it. I don't believe that that is the issue! I'm worried that—“

Death stopped him. "Calm down. Take a break, let one of your subordinates take over..."

"...They can't handle things themselves for very long."

"That's not the point. Just, after a long rest, return to your work. And enjoy it."

Pestilence huffed. "That's not a solution. You can't just—"

"Yes, you can. I do that every day." Death gave Pestilence a pinched smile before standing up. "Fake it 'till you make it, right?"

"The slang phrases you picked up from your visits into the future are infuriating."

Death grinned cheekily. He clasped his colleague's arm, and departed from the cursed land.

.

On stage with the orchestra at his back was a stunning, excitable young man performing Sibelius's Violin Concerto in D Minor. The audience was dead silent; even the old man with the hacking cough in the back had ceased his heaving, beads of sweat trickling down his red face as he struggled to reign himself in so he wouldn't miss a second of the piece.

The virtuoso played with the furious abandon of a madman—and it was possibly the most human-like performance Death had ever bore witness to. He played angrily, willing his wooden instrument to usher out a sound so beautiful the world absolutely must hear it right freakin' now. 

Death was stunned, to say the least. Most people nowadays, he thought, spent most of their lives withering away behind desks doing mindless, insignificant work. But this was special—this man was in love with his music, and the audience listening was in love with his music, and people for years to come would be in love his music. What a life he was living; what a phenomenal swan song for one to sing, to perform with all their heart.

When it was almost time, Death went around the stage and stepped up onto it slowly, so as to not scare the musician. The violinist saw, anyways. He winked in the Horseman’s direction without faltering, without missing a beat or a bow stroke.

Death wandered up to him, cloaked in darkness and finality, and patted the man's shoulder in such an amicable fashion one might construe them to be friends. 

He guided the man's fall so the gorgeous instrument didn't suffer any damage. Death turned and stared right into the eyes of the psychic.

"I'm sorry you didn't get to finish. It was the best rendition I've heard since its creation."

"Can you send me back?" the man pleaded. "Just so I can finish it!"

"Well, you definitely can linger here, if that's what you want. But I warn you, you will not be able to play."

The man's face fell in resignation, and after a second of pondering his options, he went along willingly.

It was such a waste, Death reflected afterwards. If half the people in history didn't die before their full potential was realized, then the Earth would probably be a greater place. But like this man eloquently demonstrated, most died in the midst of doing. And that was something Death could not change.

.

It was a sunny winter morning in the year 1924 when Death confronted Famine, a question resting on the tip of his tongue. "You seem distracted lately. Why, though?"

Famine looked around himself anxiously, though it was doubtful anyone would overhear him. "Okay, I'll tell you. But you better promise not to even think a word of this around War."

Death straightened like a board, and nodded tersely. Famine continued without preamble. "I... might have accidentally... fallen in love with a girl. A human."

"Oh." They were quiet for a moment. "I think you already know what I'm gonna say."

Famine sighed, and turned an angry brow to his powerful counterpart. "Death, it's not like with the Roman you liked—"

"It's exactly like the Roman, Famine! Nothing good ever comes from fraternizing with mortals. It always ends bloody, or sad, or—you get my point."

"Whatever. I won't mess it up like you did."

Death recoiled, as if Famine just slapped him across the face. But his retort died on his lips as he saw Famine looking off into the distance, and he realized that there was no heat behind his words.

He settled next to the puppy-eyed being, and swallowed. "Well, what's the lucky lady's name?"

Famine smiled warmly to himself, and Death couldn't help but feel the tiniest glimmer of happiness for him. "Jessica. Jessica Moore."

"Sounds like quite the charmer."

"Shut up, she was just born a month ago."

"Oh you dirty sonofa—"

"Shut up!" Famine laughed. "If you saw her soul, you'd be a goner too. It's…" he paused, "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

The conversation took a somber dip. 

"Look, Famine: even if you manage to keep away so you don't hurt her, I'm gonna have to collect her soul one day."

"I know," Famine mourned. They both understood the gravity of Death's words, but both decided to delay pondering them for another time.

.

Love, thought Death, was fascinating. It carried across distance and generations, it had forged bonds and raised nations to the ground, it had been broken and hurt and lost and found and born in countless ways. Humans even created a holiday around it.

Love was not a foreign concept to Death. He loved Famine, yes, but in a brotherly way. War was a constant, at least, and Death tolerated him despite his manipulative nature. 

He loved Pestilence differently though, he admitted to himself. It twisted strangely in his gut, warming up his chest and sent his head spinning in the most juvenile and human way. It was nice, sometimes. But occasionally it made him seethe with rage, angry at himself and Pestilence and the entire universe plus everyone existing within it.

He wanted. He wanted so badly to have Pestilence, to be able to call him Castiel again, to spend every waking second with him and to smile in his sunlight and to make the lesser Horseman happy. 

More than anything, he just wanted to talk with Pestilence again.

But like War had said before, Death was in his nature. It was who he was; little room was left over for anything else.

So Death hung his head and carried on. He was a professional, after all. And a good actor, when motivated.

.

Death walked amongst a small Pueblo village, enjoying the sights and smells and sounds of God's greatest creation. He had spent the morning enraptured with an ancient man molding the most beautiful clay pot he had seen since the collapse of Mesopotamia. The way the artisan shaped the substance between his bony fingers spoke of developed skill, and love for his craft. It was fascinating, Death decided. He wondered if he showed such prowess for reaping, but ultimately thought that it was just what he was meant to do, and did not qualify as talent. You could hardly show improvement of a particular task when you had been doing it since the Beginning—especially if the gift you had been given was all-encompassing, and perfected from the start. 

Afterwards, he wandered about the streets, smiling to himself when a little girl ran past, her dark hair swishing around her pretty face.

Death turned around to see War standing there with his resting devious expression. Though the surrounding Pueblo people couldn't see either of the Horsemen, they certainly were affected by War's appearance. A couple standing a few feet away began to argue, spurred on by War's aura. The children nearby began to fight, tussling in the dirt at the feet of yelling adults. A young woman in an adobe building at the opposite end of the plaza lashed out at her grandmother, aiming for her neck. Screams and yells filled the streets, the people sounding more like a wild pack of coyotes than civilized humans. It was disquieting and filled Death himself with a low-grade panic.

"Stop this madness!" Death bellowed. 

War adjusted the golden ring on his finger, and the sudden rancor dissipated. "Now that I have your attention," he began, teleporting the pair of them out away from the crowd, "there's a matter of some delicacy that I would like to discuss."

"Oh really.” Death crossed his arms, his glare piercing War like a hot blade.

"Yes. I recall Famine was exhorting you to deal with the psychic situation."

"He still hasn't let up since Tenochtitlan." Death sighed, rubbing a hand across his forehead.

"I understand." War smirked, adjusting the red around his neck. "Yes, their presence in the human population has become more widely known in recent centuries."

"What's your point?"

"Well, it looks as if the mud-monkeys are taking care of the issue themselves."

Death blinked. "How so?"

"Up in the British colonies. Massachusetts, if I heard correctly. Gruesome business, really."

Death quirked an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Really? The trials?"

On the surface, War did not seem fazed. But Death had known him all of his supernatural existence, and could see that he was taken aback. 

"Yes, really. It looks as if the humans might kill the psychics off themselves, without outside intervention."

"Wait, 'uninvolved'? This reeks of demonic activity. I thought Azazel must be at it again."

War frowned.

"Don't worry, the hunters will see something's amiss, and will take care of it. They aren't a dying breed, War. Don't you worry about that."

"I just find it interesting how easy they believe the hell-bent whispers. It may have been initiated by our sulfuric friend, but believe me when I say that what followed was pure humanity. They’re eager to kill off their counterparts, and a fair number of their own kin in the process.”

"I am aware of that."

War narrowed his eyes, a malign expression tugging at the corners of his lips. The smarmy git could always decipher Death's feelings, no matter how deeply he buried them.

Death scowled, and a scorpion a yard away sizzled into black nothingness. "Get lost," he snapped.

“I just wanted to make sure you and I were on the same page. I know how much you love your psychics, Grimm.” With just a thought, War disappeared.

.

Death both loved and hated the Roman Empire, as he did many things about humanity. It was funny, though: he'd swear off returning to the capital after each visit, but he kept gravitating back towards it like a moth to a flame.

Sometimes, he'd come to enjoy the literature or to wander the streets and explore the architectural marvels of the city. Or to listen in on public discussions and senate meetings. Occasionally, he'd go to a chariot race, but he found most of their sports to be barbaric. 

This time, though, Death was in Rome for business. He had just collected a few souls at a mass public Christian execution, and was scanning the dispersing crowd, looking for anything in their eyes but excitement and bloodlust and contempt. It was days like these that made him lose a little faith in humanity. He was not proud of their aggression, and would much rather see some compassion or kindness. 

On that day, Death was not disappointed.

Further in the back was a man that stood out like a sore thumb. It was almost comical; he was like an orange in a barrel of apples. Death would have thought him a foreigner visiting from a distant land if it weren't for the way he moved about like a true Roman—his fair skin and baby blue eyes were not to be found anywhere else in the dark crowd. This man—this godlike creature—looked downright heartbroken. He lingered at the scene like a ghost as the others surrounding him turned tail and wandered off.

Eventually though, after coming back to himself from whatever faraway place he was trapped in, the man ducked his head in mourning, eyes sparkling from unshed tears, and walked away.

Death was instantly taken by this man. He could feel an other-worldly presence, or aura about him. So, Death followed him back to his home, and wasn't surprised to find him kneeling at his bed, bowing his chin in a silent prayer. 

Death watched the line of his shoulders, the curve of his spine as he prayed. He looked like a righteous servant of the Lord, an ethereal deity that was too good for the world he lived in. The ancient being walked around him, to better see his face, when the man startled and jumped to his feet.

"What are you doing inside my house?" He questioned, a barely-noticeable accent bleeding through his Latin. "How did you get here?"

Death, to say the least, was puzzled. The only mortal man he had met who had been able to see him before they died was a Greek king by the name of Odysseus. He could hardly count, though, due to the pantheon of gods meddling with his life. The king had a more pleasant reaction to the Horseman, and ended up trading stories with Death. Even when he first met the Greek, Death was sure that there was something abnormal about him. The way his words fired quick from his mouth, and how he was able to transform them and bend them to his will. His eyes reflected the warrior's guile, and his presence spoke of experience and charm and luck and something beyond the mortal plane of existence. 

But Death never considered the fact that he would ever meet another like him. True, the Roman he followed wasn't like the Greek, but now that Death was around him more, he could see that the man had a certain air of intelligence about him—a natural understanding of the world and how it works, the easy confidence one would find in a person who knew a massive secret that no one else did. It showed, despite the man's surprise.

"You could be killed for doing that, you know." Death replied, after a long, tense moment.

“Yes. I figured that much out on my own, after today." He retorted, fire bleeding into his speech.

The man scrutinized Death. "Yes," he finally said. "They were my friends. 'N you just helped them pass on, didn't you?"

Death couldn't help but be taken aback. "You know who I am?"

"I think. You're the bringer of death, right? You reap souls?"

"I am Death."

The man shifted on his feet, rolling this new fact over in his mind for a time. He nodded to himself. "Okay, got it. So it's my time, huh? I'm at peace, so it doesn't matter. I'll rejoin my friends in Paradise."

Death smirked, and shook his head. "I'm not here for you. It isn't 'your time'." When the man frowned, Death added, "and just for the record, Heaven isn't all it's cracked up to be."

"Then why are you here?"

"You were the only one in the crowd not screaming to rip the executed people's bowels out from their torsos." The Horseman admitted this timidly.

The man looked slightly pleased, if not a little green from the imagery. "I spent six years down in Ithaca—when I came back, I'd almost forgot how bloodthirsty they are."

"You know who I am; I don't think it's fair that I don't know who you are."

The Roman raised an eyebrow, and looked at the being skeptically. "I thought you might have the powers to tell? Right?"

Death sighed, and in a very human-like fashion, rolled his eyes. "Well yeah, but don't you think it is a little strange for me to dig around in your head and find out everything about you? I've been on this planet for a while, and I know what's considered proper social etiquette, pal. Besides, it could hurt to have me in your brain alongside yourself."

The man chuckled. "Alright, then. Some call me Magnus."

Death scrunched his human's nose in an informal gesture. "I don't get you Romans. There are like ten names, total. No offense, but Magnus is really boring."

"You got something else in mind?"

"What did your friends call you?"

Death was met with silence.

"What did they call you?" Death repeated.

"Um, in our groups we sometimes used Hebrew names." Magnus whispered the last part.

"Good!" Death grinned. "I'm partial to them myself, actually. What was yours?"

"Benjamin."

"Benjamin. It's a good name. Solid. You know in the future, they'd call you Benny?"

The man's eyes widened. "You can travel into the future?"

"Well yeah, I am a supreme entity after all."

Benjamin smiled. "So, can we use ‘Benny’, then?"

At this, Death laughed out loud in a warm voice. How interesting of a person did he meet that morning? "Alright, Benny! That's what I'll call you from now on!"

"You plan on visiting often? No offense, but that might make me a little uneasy. What with you killin' people and all."

Death chuckled again. "I don't actually do the killing. I just transport the souls of those that are dead already. Don't worry about that. You're the second human I have met who has been able to see me for what I am. You might prove good company. And to tell you the truth, I can get a little lonely at times." He winked at Benny.

The Roman looked slightly scandalized, but did not seem all that upset about it. "Don't you have things to do?"

"Yes, I sure do! And actually, I really need to get going." Death turned to the doorway, and looked at the special man he just met. "I'll stop by again when I have free time, alright?"

"I'll be here," Benny said enigmatically.

Death shook his head, and left.

.

Pestilence was lost in thought, his mind like a boat ripped from the shore by a terrible storm. Clouds hovered around his face, almost as if they were a shield as he pondered deeply about something unknown to Death.

They sat together, each absorbed in their own heads, for days in their little slice of the universe.

When Death opened his mouth, cobwebs filled the hollows of his cheeks and spiders scampered away on his teeth. "What's wrong, Cas?"

"Mmm? What did you call me?" Pestilence asked, still in a slight daze.

"Nothing. I just asked how you were."

"I am thinking."

"I can see that."

Pestilence looked Death in the eye, his voice like thunder, ringing throughout the land. "We've been friends for a long time now, haven't we? We are friends, are we not?"

Death's heart seemed to beat at a quicker tempo in his chest. "Of course we are, Pestilence. Where are you going with this?"

The other Horseman shook his head in denial. "It is... irrelevant."

"Please. Tell me."

Blue constellations met green, and Pestilence sighed. "In all the realities I've checked, we at least know each other. But most of the time, we're together. Soulmates, actually. Mated. Married. Did you know that?"

Death's breath flew out of him as an undying wind of pent-up emotions. "We can't, Pestilence. We just can't." He unwillingly tapped into the undying realm of sadness that existed in his gut, fog forming around his eyelids.

"And why not?" There was anger, now. "Why don't we deserve to be happy?"

Death closed his eyes. "We have a duty. A duty to carry out God's will, a duty to reign in humanity. We are the natural order, buddy. I don't think we were built to love."

"Then what is this feeling that I have?"

Death smiled in a crass manner. "Love, probably."

The other Horseman gave Death a withering glare, his eyes like the untouched ice of a frozen lake. "Then why is it not mine to possess?"

"Because I don't deserve it, Pestilence." His voice broke. 

"You deserve everything." Pestilence said in earnest.

"We have a mission, though. We have a mission and we can't deviate from it. We weren't meant to indulge ourselves, Pestilence. I'm sorry."

Pestilence collapsed back onto their bench. He buried his head in his hands, and simply existed in sorrow. 

"I know. Death, I know. But one of these days, we are going to have to create a new path for ourselves."

For a long time, Death's hand hovered over Pestilence's back. Eventually, he let it fall softly, landing in place like a key opening a lock.

.

After Death's trip to Rome, he could not stop himself from visiting the strange man known to him as Benny. The man knew a little about a lot of things, and proved to be very insightful and interesting to talk to. They traded stories like two old men, and laughed like children. Death was also able to learn more about the 'breed' of human Magnus was, which he stored away in his mind for later use. The 'psychics', as he took to calling them, were a strange group of people, according to Benny who had met only one before as well. They were rare, that was obvious. But Death had lucked out in meeting his new friend.

A few months after Death first met Benny, the man asked about his clothing. He was a little surprised at how long it took the Roman to ask the question, seeing as he wasn't wearing the typical attire for the time. While working, the Horseman tried to be formal with a suit and tie, or at least a nice shirt. But on his down time, Death preferred the flannel and jeans of the 21st century.

“What’s that you’re wearin’?” Benny asked.

“Oh, this?” Death wondered aloud, fingering the material. “It’s something called flannel.” There was no Latin word for flannel, so Dean had to use the Modern English version of the word. It felt weird on his tongue, and Benny, he could see, was still thinking around the phonetics of it. “I’ve actually grabbed it from the future,” he admitted with a slight blush.

Benny’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh yes. I forgot that you could go into the future.”

Death nodded. “Yeah. I can go into the past, too. I can’t do it too often, though, because it messes with the flow of time. If you do it too much, things tend to bleed together.” Death made a face at a memory of the last time he had done so. He had attended his first (and last) party with some of the pagan gods, namely Dionysus. He was so drunk, that after being egged on by Ma’at, he went and proved that he could jump between the 5th and 500th centuries in the time that it took Sif to finish her drink. 

He had repressed those memories for a reason, he reflected with a shudder.

“Can… can you get me some of this? I’d like to try it on.”

“How about we do a trade? I’ll wear Roman-style clothing, and you can wear my stuff.” Death suggested with a smile.

“Okay. I have to admit, I’ve wanted to see you out of those clothes for a while,” Benny joked.

Death started removing his shirts, and was a little surprised at the way Benny’s eyes roved over his chest and arms. They seemed to pierce through his very skin, and see down to the very bones that formed the structure of his physical form. The shape Death appeared in most of the time was the corporeal body given to him at the time of Creation. He didn't consider it too much, except to keep it in modest and healthy condition. But was his body attractive, to human standards? He knew he wasn't ugly, but there were a few things that he felt self-conscious about. Like his bowed legs, for example, or the sun spots that were splattered across his shoulders and face. Was that desirable? Death wasn't quite sure what the standard for beauty was anymore. He would have to ask Famine later. Pestilence would not be much of a help, he thought.

He stripped down to his underwear, and stretched the shirts and jeans out to accommodate for Benny’s girth. The man watched in fascination as Death molded the fabric, and cradled the given cloth like one might cherish a newborn baby.

Death politely turned around while his mortal friend changed. In the meantime, he summoned up a toga, and dressed himself in it. Once finished, he turned around and found Benny struggling with the zipper and button.

“Here…” Death reached over, and careful not to touch the skin, did up his jeans.

Benny raised a quizzical eyebrow at Death. At first Death thought he was referring to the jeans, but Benny reached out and pointed at the toga the Horseman was wearing. “No one wears ‘em anymore,” he said with a smirk. “Maybe old man Caius next door, but that’s ‘cause he’s so old that he creaks every time he walks a step.” 

Death snickered. “Fine.” He snapped his fingers, and was wearing a pallium like Benny had earlier. “This better?”

Benny smiled. “You look a little too pretty in that to blend in. But it’s gettin’ there.” His eyes twinkled as he looked up at the Horseman.

“Pretty?” Death frowned. “Really? This is just a robe.”

“It shows skin,” the man said simply. “This, though, this’s confining. How d’you wear it all the time?”

“Hey, I stand by it! And besides, I don’t wear flannel and jeans every day.” 

“Uh huh. Right.”

“Be quiet, Benny!” Death chastised. 

“What’re you gonna do, old man?” For some reason, that made Death aware of the time.

“Oh shit, I’ve really gotta go.” He snapped his fingers and appeared in a clean suit. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to fly.”

Benny looked a little disappointed. “Let me know when you’re in town again.”

“Sure will, Benny.” Death nodded in a salute, and was off.

.

"Here. Catch," Death shouted as he made himself tangible.

Pestilence easily caught the trinket with his hands, carefully running his fingers along the hieroglyphs etched onto the jar.

"I thought you might like it," Death said, sitting down next to his life-long friend.

Pestilence squinted his eyes in that infuriatingly attractive way, and asked, "Which pharaoh is this from?" Though in his free time Pestilence often took to studying the hierarchy of the angels, he knew some about the histories of mankind. Not enough, though, to decipher the owner of the thing in his hands.

"It's a Canopic Jar from Seti III's tomb." Death informed him matter-of-factly.

The younger Horseman went to open the jar, but decided better of it. Pestilence carved a hole in the fabric of their little reality, placing the gift with all the others Death had given him through the years. Death smiled to himself, knowing that he was appreciated.

Pestilence looked up, an unreadable expression passing across his face. "How long are you staying here this time? Because I have found that when you give me things, it means that you will be away on business for a long time."

The truth in Pestilence's statement alarmed the original Horseman. Death admitted to himself that he had actually distanced himself from his colleagues sometime after he had started visiting the Roman he had cared for, and ever since then he had been finding excuses to avoid the few beings in creation that he could call his friends. Pestilence knew, of course—he always knew. He could figure out what was bothering Death in every situation they had encountered thus far. It would be scary, almost, if it weren't comforting.

Part of Death ached with the knowledge that he was distancing himself, when in truth he would rather spend the rest of his days with Pestilence. It was a difficult struggle between duty, guilt, and desire. One that ripped him apart.

He chased away those terrible thoughts, and focused on his friend. "I'm sorry," he mourned. "I wish I could spend most of my time here."

They were both sorry, in the end. Death left anyways.

.

"How long're you staying this time?" Benny asked, his voice inquisitive yet weary.

"I could spend a few hours here, if that's okay with you."

Benny grinned cheekily. "Of course it is, chief! We can walk around the Forum for a time." He led the two of them out of his home, his steps confident and solid.

Death followed his mortal companion outside, gazing up at the fiery ball of gas in the sky. Although people could not see Death in his current state, most had an innate sense to not move near the apparently void space next to Magnus. The Horseman was thankful to God for putting that awareness in his greatest creations: he could do without accidentally killing everyone he met on the street.

For most of the day, the two of them wandered about the great city, talking animatedly and happily. And for the first time in a while, Death could call himself ‘happy’. Most of the time, he was little better than content, and rarely anything more than that. Benny was a wonderful person, he decided, someone he could really have a conversation with. The ethereal being could count on one hand the amount of people that could well and truly raise his spirits, and Magnus was one of them.

"What d'you want to do?" the man asked, searching the immortal being’s face.

"I would just like to have a break from work. I want to relax, actually. That cool with you?" The Horseman flashed his teeth.

Benny nodded, and beckoned the ancient being to sit down with him on a concrete bench underneath a copse of shady trees. The setting was stunningly beautiful, and Death closed his eyes to better feel the wind that ran through his hair. They sat for a while, enjoying the day and each other's presence. Eventually, Benny began to speak.

"Mors, do you do this with everyone?" he asked.

"Do what?"

He laughed quietly, albeit unsurely. "Well, I feel like you have been sweet-talking me in preparation for you collectin' my soul. Is this standard procedure, or...?"

"What? No! No, I mean," he cut himself off. "I... honestly? I have never actually done this before. It's unprecedented."

"Now, I don't believe that—"

"No, I'm serious. You're one of the first humans I've ever met who is actually able to see me! That—that's nice. It is really nice."

Benny furrowed his brows. "Really? Now how is that true?"

"You're not human. At least, not completely. Like maybe 99%, okay? Don't you give me that look!” Death huffed. “Okay, so I've theorized about it, and I think that you've been born with certain supernatural abilities. Like, when you're telling me about how you can always guess what might happen before it happens, and how you can get people to do small things for you? I think it is a result of a tiny amount of demon blood that made its way into your system."

"What? How could that be possible?" Benny leaped to his feet, his eyes growing wide.

"It's just a hypothesis,” Death soothed. “Besides, it could have gotten into one of your parents before they created you. Don't worry about it. It has allowed me to meet you, after all. Isn't that a good thing?"

At this, the Roman nodded. "Yeah." He eyed the Horseman with shining blue eyes, and thought for a time. "You know, when you followed me home that day? That might've been the best thing to happen to me."

Death was shocked. "W-what?" he asked in confusion. "What does that mean?"

Benny shook his head with a laugh. "For an immortal, you're thicker than I thought you would be."

"What are you saying?"

He breathed in through his nose, and closed his eyes dreamily. "I like you, mors.”

"Well, good," Death replied, not entirely sure of his friend's implication. "I like you too. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here."

"No, brother. I mean I like you. I like you."

"Um... I'm not sure what you mean."

Benny, god bless his heart, started giggling like a child. He brought a hand up to cover his face, rosy cheeks glaring out from behind it. He reached over, and placed his hand over Death's.

And without another word, the lifeless body of Magnus Lacantius dropped into Death's arms.

Death gaped like a fish, and stood up. He clutched Benny’s body tightly in his shaking hands, eyes searching the man for any sign of life. A blinding flash of light descended over the crowd, and everyone within a fifty-foot range of Death dropped dead to the ground. The Forum erupted in screams as people started to run away in terror from the now-visible Horseman and the corpses of the dead.

He just killed somebody. A 'somebody' who wasn't meant to die for another thirty-two years, and the universe was trying to correct itself. But like many damaged or broken things, the universe doesn't always heal right.

Death, for the first time in all of his existence, panicked. He dropped the body. Amidst the screams, he searched the area around him. Benny's soul was not there. None of the deceased’s souls were present. 

"No," he gasped. "No, no no! Benny! Magnus!"

He kneeled down next to the lifeless corpse of his friend. He searched Benny's cold, unseeing eyes for movement or a glimmer of hope, though he knew that Benny was gone. No, it was worse than that. Once he touched Benny, who wasn't supposed to die, his soul was completely destroyed. Benny wasn't here, because there was no soul to take to heaven. 

Left with nothing else to do, Death fled.

In their private slice of the world, Pestilence looked up from where he was sitting and found himself with an armful of Death. “What’s wrong? Death?” His gravelly voice was full of concern.

"I... I screwed up." The older of the two croaked. "Remember that Roman guy you don't like?"

Pestilence's face hardened.

"I killed him!” Death stumbled over his words. “Before his time. And about twenty other people died too."

Pestilence wrapped his trench coat-clad arms around his friend in a crushing hug. "It's okay, Death. It's okay. You cannot save everyone, my friend."

And without any other reservations, Death openly wept.

.

The world was on the brink of war. The humans likened the Balkan states to a powder keg, one spark short of an explosion. Deadly alliances were crafted that were slated for chaos. The entire planet was on edge. The tension in the air could almost be cut by the edge of a butter knife.

Death and Pestilence sat side-by-side in the space between realities. This was their place—none of the other Horseman or beings with the ability to travel between dimensions were allowed to venture here. It was warded to the nines, and guarded from the outside by one of Death's most trusted reapers. It was just for the two of them, and that was how they liked it.

It was a pocket-realm, hanging onto the edge of the Earth by the bare threads of reality. Birds flew into the enclosed area from pools in the ground, and dipped back under after flitting about long enough to stretch their wings and talk with the others. Giant redwood trees shot upwards into the white nothingness above, the foliage thick enough to provide total shade and cover. The moss-covered rocks that formed what could be construed as the ground curved up unnaturally, like a stone snow globe half-made. The air was humid, and the sounds of forest animals echoed throughout the area, despite the apparent lack of living creatures besides the birds and the plants. A single park bench sat at the center of it all, like a lone soldier in a mysterious land. It was beautiful, in its own unsettling way.

"Death," Pestilence began, breaking the silence like a glacier cracking apart in the dead of night. "I am... confused.”

Death smirked. "When are you not?"

Pestilence threw his colleague a withering glare. Death shivered exaggeratedly.

"Death."

"What are you confused about, then?"

"Humanity is... perplexing."

Pestilence had recently become enraptured with the humans and their way of life, much to Death's delight. It was a rare day when Pestilence would go without bringing up his new subjects of study.

"Explain," Death prompted.

"They are capable of the same emotions we are, are they not? And should they not have the same reasoning skills as well?"

"Where are you going with this?"

"Why must they fight with one another?" Pestilence asked, his eyes burning with frustration. 

"I think this is a question better pressed to War, don't you agree?"

Pestilence looked at Death, worry radiating off of him like heat on a hot asphalt drive. "I care about humanity. And it just makes my job harder."

Death wanted to laugh. Or cry. Probably both. But before he could react, he was made aware of the time by one of his reapers subconsciously calling to him.

"Sorry to cut this short, buddy, but I've gotta head out."

"To where?"

"I have to collect the soul of a one Archduke Ferdinand." Death said with a grim smile.

"Was he killed...?"

"Yes." Just that single syllable held so much meaning. Pestilence sighed wearily, and crumpled in on himself.

"So it begins," he whispered.

.

In the early twenties, while working a job, Famine fell in love with a human girl. Her name was Jessica Moore, and because she was a newly created person with a soul made of gold, only a month old, Famine's effects didn't harm her like they would anyone else in his presence. He took one look at her, and saw how pure her soul was. He was gone instantly.

Famine took to watching her from afar, spending most of his time looking out for her much in the same way as Death did with Magnus. He had to keep his distance, though, or else she'd suffer from his famine and that was the last thing he wanted to do to her. He had to watch her date others, and it hurt him every single time. He couldn't comfort her when she was upset, or wipe away her tears. All he could do was secretly leave gifts and such things. 

It might have been considered a tragedy from the human perspective. Or total devotion.

World War II left Death exhausted. The sheer amount of carnage wreaked in the past few years was enough to make even War look weary. But here, at the end of all things, was when Jess's soul would be collected.

Death let Famine know in advance, so he could see her in her last moments. The two Horsemen followed her as she raced across the country in a train to meet her father in New York, who had just come back from service in Europe. The train would never make it to its destination; Jessica would never get to see her father’s return.

The shrieking of metal and the screams of passengers reverberated throughout Death's bones as he led Famine to where Jessica was. Death looked away from Famine's misery and instead focused on the reapers that have appeared to take the passengers. He nodded his head to some of them, and they bowed in respect. They cleared a path to the end of the train, where she was lying.

"Oh, Jess," Famine breathed. He reached out to hold her, but was stopped by Death.

"You can't touch her, Famine. Her soul hasn't been separated from her body yet," he spoke the words with as little emotion as he could muster. "You'd be doing more harm than good, I'm afraid."

Famine looked up at Death with shining eyes and wet cheeks, his shaggy hair hanging low over his forehead. "She's... she's twenty-two, Death," he pleaded. "You can't take her."

"I'm sorry, Famine." He was. "It's her time."

"But, she could be useful!" The grieving Horseman bargained. "She could live for another eighty years, and we could use her! She could communicate with humans whereas I can't! It could be done!"

Death didn't answer. Pain lined his eyes as he looked down sadly at his brotherly companion.

"Please." It came out as barely a whisper. "Please, Death. I... I can't lose her. I can't."

Death turned his head away. This was something he just could not bring himself to watch, despite however much he should.

"I'll do anything, I swear. Please, Death, we've been close since the beginning of everything. Please. Don't you love me, brother?" Ice sank its burning teeth into Death's chest. "Please, just save her. Don't take her away. Don't..."

In that instant, Death was reminded of when Benny was killed out of time, and how many people died in response. But preventing someone from dying—the effects would be even more drastic. No, Jessica Moore had to die. She had to. It was her time, and Death made no exceptions. Not for anyone.

"I'm sorry."

Famine openly sobbed, attracting the stares of all the reapers present. Death left after that, trusting his workers to take care of the situation. Distraught, he flew to the only place where he might find solace.

Thankfully, Pestilence was already there. "Death?" he asked, voice raising in pitch once he saw the expression on his friend's face.

"Famine will never forgive me," Death said aloud, clutching desperately to the ridiculous coat Pestilence dressed himself in.

"She passed today?" He was met with an absent nod.

"I am sure that he does not hate you," Pestilence continued. "Famine should know better than to interfere with the jurisdiction of another Horseman."

Death shook his head slowly. "But he loved her. He was happy. And I took that away from him."

Pestilence leaned over, close enough that his lips brushed against the shell of Death's ear. "But he knew what was going to happen, naturally. He knew that this day would come, so it is on him for reacting the way he did."

But for all of Pestilence's attempts at comfort, Death just couldn't get over it. He had gotten used to the pleading of the dead and dying, and though it became harder and harder to take their souls as the years progressed, he would go through with it. People had gotten angry, or unbearably sad, sometimes even trying to bargain with him. But Death had developed an almost clinical approach, trying oh so very hard to just not feel.

He had been getting progressively worse, becoming more and more distant with each person he took. But this with Famine? It was too much for him to bear. 

How could he so easily hurt Famine like that? Although it was part of his job, Death felt horrible guilt. He knew he couldn't face Famine again. And who was to say that this might not happen once more, with someone else he cared about?

Death left. He disappeared in the way only he could, hiding in the shadows of the humans and echoing their steps. The other Horsemen searched for years, looking for Death, but he was better at hiding then they were at seeking. 

He was alone.

.

Seventy years after Jessica's death found Death resting near a playground, watching a pair of kids play catch on a sunny October afternoon. And then, without warning, Pestilence was there.

"Figures you'd be the one to track me down." Death didn't look at Pestilence. "Got the others waiting somewhere?"

"Famine is fine, by the way." This did catch the elder's attention. "He's gotten into some petty squabbles with a demon or two, something I've found quite funny, actually." 

Pestilence looked much the same as he always had, but the lines around his eyes were deeper, sadder. He had changed, and Death wasn't sure if it was for the better.

And damn him, he knew that Death would ask about Famine first.

"Since War didn't have you to argue with, he's been pestering me more often than not. We recently fought over what killed his favorite hound of war. It was an angel." He continued, resolute. "Do not let him tell you it was a group of hunters. It was an angel, no doubt."

Death chuckled, despite his mood, and he could see a familiar gleam enter back into Pestilence's eyes.

The younger Horseman sighed in an exhausted way, as if someone had just picked up the cross he was charged with bearing, and the burden of carrying it was eased. 

Death buried his face in his palms.

"Work's been much harder without you," Pestilence admitted quietly, softly. "I didn't realize..." He paused, and then continued, "It's so hard. I used to have you to help me carry the weight of it all, and I imagine I helped you with some of it too." He stopped, and looked for confirmation. When Death didn't say anything, he carried on. "I think I understand what drove you away. Not just what happened with Famine, mind you. Because the same feelings have been haunting me since you left. And I have faith that we might be able to help one another out."

"You think you know what made me leave?" Death asked rhetorically. "Yeah, right. Try again in the next century."

"You don't think I understand?" Pestilence replied, anger buried beneath his calm demeanor. "I am Pestilence, Death. I can't even walk among humanity without setting up barriers. They drop like flies in my presence. They become infected with the plague and everything else I harbor and I cannot do anything about it but exist half in their world, like we are now. The only time I can walk amongst God's greatest creation is when I'm working, and then only to spread disease and misery. Don't think that I do not understand you, Death. We are more alike than you'd want to believe."

"Then how do you have so much faith?" Death brokenly whispered. "How do you hold onto it after the eons of destruction and hurt?"

There was no answer.

Death bit his lip, and looked away from his friend. "Why are you here, then? If you are so poisonous, and we so similar, why have you not fled like I did and spent your existence alone?" The last part was choked off, Death's voice wavering slightly.

"Because, I have studied the humans." Pestilence stood up, hovering over Death with a growing smile on his face. "They choose their own paths—most of them, anyway. Do they not? We are capable of doing the same, Death."

"But—"

"I know things can get better." Pestilence placed an arm on the elder's shoulder, and gently squeezed. "You can't avoid us forever—even if you chose to live a lonely existence, you will see us one last time, when the end comes."

Something ugly twisted in Death's chest, but he continued listening to his best friend's thoughts.

"Famine's really missed you. He has always thought of you as a brother, you know. And War has missed you too, in his own way."

"But how could Famine—"

"Oh, Death. He was never mad at you." His voice was like satin, quietly washing over Death and making his pulse quicken. "He understood the natural order, and that Jessica had to die. You've been punishing yourself for a crime you never committed."

Death felt himself stand up, dream-like in his motions. "How... how did you find me, then?" he wondered aloud.

"Actually, I discovered how you've been cloaking yourself in 1999. But I didn't exactly know what to say." The younger Horseman looked bashful.

Death allowed himself to grin. "Well, it's not like I was expecting you to spout out Shakespearian soliloquies when you first showed up or anything."

Pestilence did something neither of them expected—he pulled Death into a tight embrace, conveying all the emotions he felt that could not be spoken. Death's breath caught.

"I missed you," he heard himself say to his life-long friend. "Leaving you behind was the hardest part of all."

"So will you come back with me? It hasn't been the same since you left. We all want you to come back home. I want you home."

Death was silent for a long, lingering moment. "Yes," he breathed. "Yes, alright."

Pestilence drew back, only to smile in all his brilliant warmth. Death's face pulled into an identical shining expression. 

"You know, that wasn't the only reason why I came here." With the careful hand of a craftsman, Pestilence took Death's hand in his own, and looked up at him from beneath dark lashes. "I've remembered something."

Death looked at Pestilence, hard. "What have you remembered?"

"Something I can hardly believe I let myself forget."

Death froze, hardly daring to hope for what Pestilence could say.

“Your name. I remember your name.”

“Say it. Say it please.”

“Hello, Dean.” Pestilence said simply, like those three syllables were the only things that mattered in the entire universe.

"Hey, Cas."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [power to destroy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5767042) by [ideare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ideare/pseuds/ideare)




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